


Tumblr Ficlets

by yaycoffee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic, M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 17:31:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17268386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yaycoffee/pseuds/yaycoffee
Summary: This is a collection of (probably) unconnected ficlets based on tumblr prompts.  This is just a place for me to keep the collection organized(ish) since Tumblr can be unpredictable.  Each chapter will be a separate mini-story.  These will be short ficlets, 221b's, and drabbles.  Anything longer than 1k will be posted as its own story.





	Tumblr Ficlets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> @anyawen prompted me with “chocolate covered coffee beans,” and so– this is what happened :-)  

 

 

John sees them on a much-picked-over display at Sainsbury’s with what’s left of the other posh holiday sweets, now on offer because Christmas, New Year—it’s all done now.  It’s rather a large cylindrical container of chocolate-covered espresso beans, decorated with a bright red bow and a  _To: From:_  label.  He’d seen them around before but never actually tried them.  

He likes coffee.  He likes chocolate.  Right, then. Shrugging, he puts them in the trolley and continues on for the rest of the shopping.

At Baker Street, Sherlock appears in the kitchen from nowhere, a Pavlovian response to the rustling of plastic bags that might contain a fresh packet of biscuits.  He rifles through everything, dumping the entire contents from bags onto the worktop, not helping  _even at all_ , while John is getting the things where they go.  

“You could help,” John says.

Sherlock ignores him.

“Oh!”  From the next bag, Sherlock pulls out the container of espresso beans and rattles them as he reads the label, turning the container just a bit.  In a flourish, he’s got it on the counter, picking at the taped opening with his thumbnail.  “These  _are_  good.”

John huffs, knowing he’s lost Sherlock’s attention entirely to the siren call of sweets.  He turns back to his task, getting milk and eggs and chicken into the fridge.

Behind him, though, Sherlock makes a noise, a soft moan that is positively  _obscene_.  The unexpected heat in John’s cheeks is amplified by the cool woosh of air as he shuts the refrigerator door.  He tries to collect himself, breathe, shake his head and get back to normal—and he very nearly manages it. He even has a joke on the tip of his tongue about giving Sherlock some privacy, but when John turns around, the look on Sherlock’s face (eyes closed, jaw rolling, nostrils flaring) only makes everything worse.  John’s mouth goes dry, words evaporating; he clears his throat.  

Sherlock’s eyes open and lock with John’s, and the moment stretches, brewing.  His lip turns up, soft and slow, and he reaches two long fingers back into the container for more.  John is transfixed; he cannot stop staring.  

“Here,” Sherlock says, stepping into John’s space, close enough that the coffee and chocolate on his breath make John’s mouth water.  

Sherlock holds one out to him, and John takes it, popping it into his mouth.  Sherlock’s watches him.  

John allows his teeth to sink a couple of millimetres into the chocolate before he hits the resistance of the coffee bean, and when he bites down, it is—unexpected: coffee grit and chocolate silk, sweet and bitter and heady.  It shouldn’t be  _this good_.  But it  _is_.  Every bit of him feels engulfed by the flavour, the aroma—warm, cosy, dark, dangerous—the familiar made entirely new.  Oh, this is something completely different, exceptional, something he didn’t even know he could  _crave_.

“Try this one,” Sherlock says, quiet, close.  The heat of his breath makes John want to sip it into his own mouth—slowly, carefully.  He sways forward, letting his lips brush Sherlock’s thumb as he takes what is offered.  

This time, he bites down immediately, relishing the rush of it as it fills his mouth, his nostrils.  John smells the dark roast of his breath as it ghosts back onto his own face from just under Sherlock’s jaw where John is breathing, breathing, spreading the rich taste of coffee and chocolate against his own palate with his tongue.  

“Sherlock,” he says, a broken whisper.

Sherlock hums, breath like gently curling steam against John’s cheeks, and then, and then—Sherlock’s lips against his are soft and warm and sweet.  His tongue against his is rich and textured and slick. His body against his is strong and familiar and  _wanted_.  

John will never stop craving this.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you have a prompt for me, let me know, and I'll see what I can do :-)


End file.
